


Meeting the new Templar

by krylla_bee



Series: In Peace, Vigilance [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krylla_bee/pseuds/krylla_bee
Summary: Dimaethor meets the newest addition to the Templar Order at Kinloch Hold.((Dimaethor Surana is my Warden OC and I've been always intrigued by her feelings for Cullen & wanted to explore that a little!))
Series: In Peace, Vigilance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582972
Kudos: 1





	Meeting the new Templar

Dimaethor had always loved stories.

It did not matter whether what she was reading were histories, or travel memoires, a cheesy romance series or Varric Tethras' newest crime novel, or even, like currently, Sister Petrine's annotations on the Dissonant Verses of the Chant of Light, she was always devouring them with a passion. Stories had their very own kind of magic, and Dimaethor was addicted to it. 

Just the other day, Jowan had joked that soon enough, there would be no unread books left for her in the Apprentices' Library. 

"No wonder, then, that you're fast-tracking your Harrowing," Eileen had added with a wink. "You're on the hunt for new reading material." 

Dimaethor had only snorted and whacked her older friend with a copy of _The Viper's Nest_. 

Back when she had been a child in the Alienage, books - and literacy - had been considered exotic and useless luxuries. As far as she could remember, nobody in her family had been able to read or write.

Ever since Dimaethor had been taught to, though, a chasm had opened in her heart, revealing a never-ending hunger for knowledge and learning. 

For a while when she was younger, she had dreamt of traveling and exploring Thedas, and learning everything there was to know about its people and their history, so she could bring back all that knowledge to her Alienage and help her people. 

Her friend Moira had only scoffed at her naiviete, though, when she had admitted to that dream a few years back. Dimaethor's face had burned in embarrassment. 

"Do you honestly believe they'll ever let you leave this place?" She had asked. "You're stuck here - we all are! This is our life for the rest of our lives!" 

Both of them had had tears in their eyes. 

"They," Moira nodded toward the Templars standing at the doors that led out of the Apprentices' Common Room, "won't ever let us go home ever again. We won't ever return to our old lives."

Back then Dimaethor hadn't had the words to describe the strange mix of hate and love she was feeling about the Circle or her dissociation with her "old life" in the Alienage. A tiny, guilty part of her was even glad to have escaped the suffering and poverty of the city. 

So instead, she had just pressed her lips together and had stared onto the blurry pages of her book. 

"Our lives won't play out like your romance stories, Dimah," Moira had pressed on. "You need to remember that you live in a real world, not a novel. Mother always told me that it's good to read but it can quickly become too much of a good thing, too. It messes with your mind, she said, and I never believed her as much as I do now!" 

"I - what?" It had been like a slap to the face. Dimaethor had felt utterly overwhelmed. 

Afterwards, when Dimaethor had been able to think more clearly, it had made sense that her mother had said that. Moira and her brother Finn came from a rich Denerim merchant family: Their mother wanted her daughter to be married off well and not come up with big dreams of her own. 

It had been Finn, who had until then been pretending to nap on one of the couches, who finally spoke up. He had risen from his horizontal position, auburn curls wildly framing his face, and had rested his elbows on his knees. 

He had caught Dimaethor's gaze briefly before turning to his sister. 

"Is it mother's warning, too, that made you decide to neglect your exam preparations and make out with Aiden in the stockroom instead?" 

Moira had coloured, her cheeks almost as red as her hair. 

"How - I mean, what? What are you talking about?"

"Just something a little birdie told me," Finn had said smugly. 

At that point, Dimaethor had been ready to just call it a day and go back to bed. The twins had been fighting on and off for months and she hated being caught in the crossfire. 

"You know what, Finn?" She had sprung up from where she had been sitting next to Dimaethor. "Go fuck yourself." She had turned on her heel and stormed out of the Common Room. The other apprentices had stared at them but Finn had paid them no mind and sat down next to Dimaethor. 

"Thank you," she had said. "And sorry. I think." 

"Don't worry, Dimah. I think your plan's pretty cool. Honestly, it fits you." He had sighed. "Our older sister just got engaged a few days ago. Moira's having a hard time accepting that her life won't work out like that." 

"Oh no," Dimaethor had stared at him with wide eyes. "I'm so sorry -" 

But Finn had waved her off. 

"Like I said, don't worry. It's shitty but it's just as shit that Moira lets out her anger on you. She'll come around." 

Dimaethor had nodded slowly but had made a mental note to check on Moira later, when she had calmed down. 

"Now, enough depressing talk," Finn had put his arm around Dimaethor's shoulders and she had rested her head against her best friend. "Wanna know how I know about Moira and Aidan?" The crooked smile had promised only mischief to come. 

"No, tell me," Dimaethor had replied dutifully. 

"Aidan told me himself. Told me that I was the better kisser after I had made out with him in the stockrooms as well." 

~ 

Dimaethor chuckled at her memories of the past. They all had been so dramatic at fourteen, especially Moira and Finn. Antivan Fire Grenades were nothing compared to their explosive fights. Everything had been so intense, so grand. 

Dimaethor rolled her head in an attempt to relax the muscles in her neck. 

She had been sitting in the Apprentice Study Room for hours but her mind wasn't tired yet. 

She had gotten into researching the Canticle of Shartan recently. Until a few weeks ago, Chantry-related literature had never been something that held her interest, but the more she read about Shartan, the more curious she got. 

And that was how she found herself on a Friday night sitting in their Study Room, working through Sister Petrice's heavy tome of annotations. 

Suddenly, Dimaethor heard footsteps approaching. She sat up straighter. 

Judging from the weight of it, it was a Templar in full armour. The human Templar who was currently guarding her showed no sign of awareness, again proving Dimaethor's elven ears as more sensitive. 

Serah Dawn was broad-shouldered with a mop of wild brown hair and was was trying her best to remain attentive but one could only watch a seventeen-year-old read for so long until even a Templar got bored. Dimaethor almost felt sorry for the woman hadn't it been her job to guard Dimaethor like a prisoner. 

Even though Dimaethor had adapted quite well to the Circle, the presence of the Templars was a constant source of ill ease, especially for an apprentice. 

Without the reassurance of having passed their Harrowing, the threat of Tranquility was always looming around the corner. 

And though Dimaethor was quite confident in her magial abilities, the idea of becoming like Owain and the other Tranquil mages in the Circle made her blood run cold. Magic was an integral part of her, so deeply connected to her that she could not imagine living without it. She would live and breathe magic if she could.

It was hard for Dimaethor to understand those who weren't as comfortable with their magic as she was. Like Keili, who resented her magical abilities and fought them every step of the way. Dimaethor doubted that they would approve of her in the Harrowing. 

A mage refusing to accept - and control - their abilities was just as unpredictable as one who had already let themselves become controlled by their strive for absolute power. 

'Magic exists to serve man', the Chantry preached, yet Dimaethor had never been able to fully agree. 

From the first time she had used it to form a little fire in her small hands during a particularly cold winter in Denerim's alienage, it had been a constant source of warmth and comfort for her. Like a warm blanket in a cold night or a loved friend in a time of need. 

The door to the Study suddenly opened with a creak. At once, her Templar guard resumed a ramrod posture in case it was one of the higher-ups. 

Dimaethor, too, tensed. 

However, they both relaxed when they saw a head of blond curls look over the threshold. It belonged to a young Templar, about her own age, who stepped through the doorway hesitantly. 

"Yes?" Serah Dawn asked with surprising authority for someone half-asleep just one minute before. Dimaethor had to suppress a giggle. 

"I - I'm Ser Rutherford, I'm supposed to take over for the rest of the night. Ma'am. Serah." The boy stuttered. 

The female templar regarded the boy with amusement. 

"Well, thank the Maker for fresh cannon fodder. It's time that we got some new recruits for these blasted shifts. Don't get sleepy, pup," Serah Dawn gave Ser Rutherford a clap on the shoulder. "Hope you brought some exciting thoughts." With that she left. 

The boy had visibly jumped at the touch, only to blush when he took in the meaning of her parting words.

He cast a glance at Dimaethor.

She tried to hide her own amusement but couldn't help her shaking shoulders as she was trying to stifle a giggle. She quickly looked back down upon her book and tried to concentrate on her text. 

After a while, she couldn't help but cast a curious glance at the new Templar.

It must have been one of his first shifts, maybe the very first, as nervous as he was. 

He was a pretty boy with sun-kissed skin and a mop of tight blond curls and the face of someone who had lived a simple but good life. He had not the arrogant look of noble fourth sons who were sent off to the Chantry because their parents did not know what to do with them, neither did he look as haggard as the ones who had seen the Templar Order as their last resort. 

Yet her eyes narrowed when she followed the line of his arm. His hand was clasping the pommel of his sword, a lot tighter than necessary, given that she was only a Mage Apprentice and reading in silence. His posture was as stiff as a statue, his eyes hardly blinking, ready to weed out any threat before it became one. _Me_ , her brain supplied. Dimah tried to shake off the thought and focus back on her reading. 

_"A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten And be forgiven, but a slave never. If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight."_

Usually, these were some of her favourite paragraphs in the Chanticle of Shartan. It made her somewhat understand why people found strength and comfort in religious texts. Reading of Shartan's rebellion, the elves' rebellion, was special to her.

She was currently working on an essay about the historical figure and his depiction in the Chantry - not even for one of her classes but simply for her own enjoyment. But tonight, she couldn't focus.

Her eyes always wandered back to the young Templar. 

She wished it was just because of his nice looks - many girls and boys in the Tower had crushes on the younger Templars - but her eyes were inevitably drawn back to his sword. 

Ser Rutherford did not look like one of the infamous brutes of the Templar order. Moira and the others would probably chide her for her naiveté, but she could not imagine a boy with a face like his to be a killer. 

But then what did they teach them in the Chantry that made a girl like her seem like such a threat? How did they make them believe they were in their right to take her freedem from her? 

_"And the People raised the blades of the fallen soldiers to the heavens And rejoiced. And Shartan said to them: "No longer are we hunted! We shall never again Be prey, waiting to be struck down! Let us take up the blades of our enemies And carve a place for ourselves in this world!"_

Dimaethor knew that mages were no prisoners. As long as they passed their Harrowing they were allowed to leave the Circle for a bit with the First Enchanter's permission. 

But apprentices did not have that luxury, they were bound to this place. The only way of leaving was running away. 

Dimaethor had often daydreamed about what leaving the Circle would be like. Would she go back to her family? Or travel the world? She wanted to meet the Dalish, ride one of their fabled hallas, see the grand halls of Orzammar for herself. She wanted to learn about cultures so complex and mystical that even her wildest dreams paled in comparison.

But she knew it was a dream that would never become reality. 

The Circle had taken her away from her family when she had been but seven years old. Dimaethor still remembered the day well. 

Her mother had come down with a bad cough and had not been able to work the entire week. Money and food had been getting even scarcer than usual, so Dimaethor had been sent on the streets to beg for a little coin. 

She had tried to get some broth from the Alienage's orphanage but they had chased her off when Old Torin told them she wasn't an orphan. They hadn't even let her inside to warm her freezing fingers over the hearth. 

So she had hid behind the orphanage and summoned a little flame. Her success had only lasted a few seconds. Almost as if out of thin air, two Templars had stood before her, staring down at her with grim expressions. 

They must have thought her to be an orphan as they had dragged her away without much hesitation. When she had started screaming, they had stuffed her mouth with some kind of herb that had made her dizzy and fall asleep only moments later. 

For the ten years since then, Kinloch Hold had been her home. And despite its restraints, it had given her so much. She had been allowed to study, learn and flourish here. If not for her magic and the Templars that had taken her, she would have never learned about history or math, let alone how to read. 

Maybe she would have died that winter in 9:18. Maybe she would have been married to some poor elvhen boy and had a babe sucking on her breast by now. Was her sister already married? Or had she died after Dimaethor had left? She hoped that they all had made it - at least, with her absence there was one mouth less to feed. 

She still remembered the names of her siblings but their faces were only shadows in her memory. Kali and Mira. She did not remember the names of her parents, maybe she had never known them at all.

And then there was her real name, Dimah. Not Dimaethor. 

On her first night at the Circle, Dimah had cried so much. She had missed the warmth of her siblings next to her and even the wailing of the baby boy next door. The Circle was too cold, too quiet, and too daunting. 

That was when one of the older apprentices approached her cot.

"Are you the new girl?" the other girl had asked her. 

Dimah had wiped her nose and nodded. In the dim light of a candle she had noticed the girl's long and sharp ears. She was elven - the first of her kind she had seen in the Tower. 

"I am Eileen, what's your name?" She had asked her. 

"Dimah," she had answered, barely a whisper. 

"Oh!" Ellya's green eyes had light up, "Is that a nickname for Dimaethor? I've always loved it when my mother told me stories about the mighty Dimaethor of the Dales. How she protected our ancestors. She was the hero of our people! And a mage too!" Eileen had grinned at her. "Your parents must have believed you to be a very brave person. So don't cry anymore, little Dimaethor. Da'Dimaethor." 

Dimah's head had buzzed. She had never heard of a mage named Dimaethor or of the Dales. Was it another city? Or a country even? Dimah had known little of what lay beyond the Alienage's gates before she had been taken away. 

She had felt so small when she had first seen the vast green lands and forests and lakes as they had traveled to the Tower. And then the Tower itself…no building in the Alienage had more than two floors but Kinloch Hold…Dimah had not been able to count that high back then. 

Eileen had still been looking at her expectingly. 

Dimah had thought of this Dimaethor and her bravery. She had taken the name as armour and buried her own name deep in her heart. If Dimaethor of the Dales could have been brave, Dimah could be too. 

"Yes," she had said, voice stronger this time. "I am Dimaethor." 

A single tear dropped down on the dusty old tome. 

Dimaethor tutted in annoyance. How childish of her to let her thoughts wander like that. 

She reached to dab the wet spot with her sleeve and in her hurry cut her finger on the paper's edge. 

"Fenedhis," she hissed, sucking on the cut. 

That was when she took in a movement near the door. 

Ser Rutherford had taken a step forward, his grip still tight on the sword. His eyes never left her face. 

Angry heat ignited in her chest and she narrowed her eyes. She could feel her magic respond to her anger, as hints of power bristled on her fingertips. 

She took her finger out of her mouth and balled her hands into fists under the table. 

"Is that all it takes, Ser Rutherford, to make you willing to commit a murder?" She spat. "A tiny papercut and a muttered curse?" 

Ser Rutherford looked completely taken aback, and maybe a little bit ashamed. 

"I was merely startled and thought -," he began. But Dimaethor didn't let him finish. 

"Thought what?" She interrupted him. "That I was about to perform blood magic right in front of you? Because what? I got bored?" Her tone told him exactly how ridiculous she thought that was. 

"Trust me, I am just as likely to become a blood mage as you are." She fought against the to punch the table. 

It was quiet after she had finished. Ser Rutherford opened his mouth but no words escaped. 

"I- I meant no offense," Ser Rutherford finally said. "I merely want to fulfill my duty."

"And what exactly is your duty, Ser? Watching us like prisoners and punishing those who aren't quick enough to listen? Forcing tranquility on helpless people? You take their dreams, their magic, and their emotions - and what do you leave behind? An empty husk, stripped of what once made them people! And you justify your actions with the greater good of the people! Which people I ask you? Aren't we people too, worthy of protection? Why is it us who have to suffer?" 

Dimaethor had ended up almost yelling at the poor new recruit. A tiny part of her regretted her anger. He was a new recruit after all and probably had never even spent much thought on the idea of Tranquility. Why would he? But the bigger part of her was too upset to care. 

The door opened suddenly and another Templar glanced into the room. 

It was Ser Jonah, another one of the younger Templars. She was glad to see it was him. Being the son of an Arl had given him more than the natural measure of self-confidence, yet being his seventh son had taught him humility enough. He was one of the few Templars who talked to Dimaethor, Moira and Finn when none of the higher-ups were around.

"I've heard raised voices" He said and glanced at Dimaethor. 

He took in her anger-reddened cheeks and raised an eyebrow in mock-exasparation, as if to say 'Can't you play nice for one minute?' 

"Do you have this under control, Ser…?" he turned to Ser Rutherford. 

Dimaethor rolled her eyes and shoved the book away from her with a huff. 

"Everything is perfectly fine, Ser Jonah," she said before Ser Rutherford had the chance to reply. 

She got up and walked to the door. 

"I'm sure Ser Rutherford _meant no offense._ " She cast him a final angry look before shoving her way past Jonah. 

"Maker's breath," Ser Jonah said with a laugh to the young Templar as they watched Dimaethor stalk down the hallway, muttering to herself. "What did you say to get her knickers in a twist?" 

Ser Rutherford stared at him with wide eyes which only to make Ser Jonah laugh even harder. 

"Shouldn't we go after her?" Ser Rutherford was completely at loss. 

"To what? Spy on her as she goes to bed?" Jonah joked. 

"No!" Ser Rutherford blushed. "But she's upset! She could be up to Maker knows what!"

Ser Jonah rolled his eyes and sighed. 

"Listen, .…?" 

"Cullen," Cullen supplied. 

"Listen, Cullen. I know what the Chantry teaches us but things aren't that black and white. There's no abomination lurking around every other corner, or demon hiding in the shadows. They're just people. And Dimaethor sure as fuck won't summon any demons tonight."

Ser Cullen looked as if he wanted to interject but Ser Jonah just continued talking.

"Sure, we watch the mages, but there's no need to antagonize them unnecessarily. Be attentive but don't look like you're ready to pull your sword out if one of them scares you with a cough," Cullen coloured. "They are kind of allergic to that. Maker knows why. Got it?"

"…Got it," Cullen replied after a moment of silence. He looked like he wanted to ask another question. 

"So, you're familiar with…Dimaethor then, Ser Jonah?" 

Jonah rewarded him with an incredulous look before bursting into a deep belly-laugh.


End file.
